


broken chord

by Siera_Writes



Category: Blur
Genre: Angst, Kissing, M/M, Smut, based in 1986, i heard y'all like skaterboy graham, internalised homophobia/biphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siera_Writes/pseuds/Siera_Writes
Summary: There's a weird twist in his gut now, every time he looks at Damon - like the world's shifted on its axis and he's falling, falling, and he can't help it. Graham knows what it is, intellectually - how could he not, when his heart beats that bit quicker, when he feels physically compelled to dip his gaze away from his friend's? And besides, he's felt it before for girls so he knows what it is, wholly, absolutely - but he doesn't acknowledge it. He keeps walking, placing one foot in front of the other, trying to use the repetitive rhythm to ground him.





	broken chord

**Author's Note:**

> I try to keep my fics from being autobiographical, only drawing on elements, but this one was a little bit more involved, in that I drew on a very poor defense mechanism of my own which I have used to deal with having a same-sex attraction to my best friend. Thankfully, I managed to resolve it, and it turned out to be mutual, much like here, but pushing down your feelings and lying to yourself can really fuck with you. Avoid if possible.
> 
> Also, bear in mind that while Graham being seventeen and Damon eighteen would be legal in the UK as of now, at the time (1986) it would've been underage. Just in case.
> 
> Ah yeah unbetaed as usual, so any glaring mistakes are mine. With that, enjoy!

There's a weird twist in his gut now, every time he looks at Damon - like the world's shifted on its axis and he's falling, falling, and he can't help it. Graham knows what it is, intellectually - how could he not, when his heart beats that bit quicker, when he feels physically compelled to dip his gaze away from his friend's? And besides, he's felt it before for girls so he knows what it is, wholly, absolutely - but he doesn't acknowledge it. He keeps walking, placing one foot in front of the other, trying to use the repetitive rhythm to ground him. 

Maybe, if he ignores it, it'll wear away. Maybe, his idle wonderings have induced it, lulled him into the feeling, and purely through just not thinking like that about Damon, he'll stop. Maybe it was that time they lay in Damon's garden for a whole day last summer, skin tickled by the grass, just talking about everything, and Graham noticed the prettiness of Damon, how his hair wasn't truly brunette, nor blonde, but a skewed mixture depending on the lighting, and the length. And how bright and clear his eyes are in with the sun overhead. And how, lay down, arm cast over his face, Damon's top rucked up and he could see the beginnings of sharp hipbones above the hem of his scrappy jeans...

"Graham?" His stomach swoops low with fear, irrational, he knows - it's not like Damon's a mind-reader (though if he had to bet on anyone, it'd be him: after instances of his daydreaming he's sometimes come to to see a knowing glint in his friend's eye, and he wonders and he worries if he knows). Graham feels hot, his cheeks uncomfortably warm, sweating at the small of his back, and he hopes it can be put down to the unseasonably warm weather. Not quite a heatwave, but warm enough that he was caught off-guard after dressing. His jeans are too heavy and the blend of his top too thick. His skin crawls at the discomfort, and the dejected turmoil of his thoughts. So what if he likes Damon like that? Who cares, and most importantly, why does he care so much about it. Is he being a hypocrite if he says he doesn't care about a person's sexuality, that it makes no difference to him, but he can't apply it directly to himself?

He's jolted abruptly from the roiling mess of feeling by a hand on his arm, locked firm but not too tight. He throws a panicked smile, before turning away, feeling skittish like an animal. Damon stops and he's pulled to a stop too, and he can barely bring himself to actually look at him. His eyes keep darting away - cause no way does he want to let on what's passing through his mind. He's pushed it down for so long he thought he was getting good at it, and in fact, he can't remember when he started. When Damon's slung his arms around his shoulders, or leant into him, or hugged him, patted him, touched him in any way through any circumstances, Graham's forced himself not to react, to just sit ramrod straight and not to lean into those peaceful touches. He thought he was hiding it well.

Damon looks concerned. Graham quirks his lips, trying to force a smile so they can just continue walking home, and Damon will let go. He ends up pressing his lips thin instead. Damon's brows lower a minute amount, and surely if Graham hadn't been paying so much attention for so long, he wouldn't have been able to pick up on the sadness nestled there too. Fuck, does he know?

"Mate, I dunno if it's really my place to say anything, but you've not been yourself for a little while now." Damon swallows, squaring his shoulders a little and crooking his head to the side, eyes imploring. "Are you alright?"

Graham is a little taken aback, and his eyes widen. He pushes down on the shock, nervy feeling in his stomach subsiding to a horrible, present, baseline. "Of course." He laughs, or tries to. Hollow. It's odd, when you try to push yourself away from something for the other person's benefit, just how much it turns out that one thing was necessary. Having just one point where they touch is enough to remind him of what he's been missing, and it hurts. He hadn't realised how vital Damon was for him.

They stand for a couple of beats, Damon evidently waiting for him to extrapolate, or maybe reassure him further, but Graham won't give him that, or rather, can't. Shame burns hotly beneath his ribs, his throat's threatening to swell shut, and the precursor of tears prickles at the inner corners of his eyes. He tries to blink them away, subtly. "Okay." Damon readjusts his stance, moving away, and Graham's cleft in half by relief and sorrow.

Graham inadvertently throws his eyes down to where Damon's still got his hand round his arm, and Damon pulls away all at once, physically recoiling, like he's scared he injured him through the prolonged contact. He catches how Damon looks almost pained, but then his eyes shutter, and he smoothes his expression to neutral, and it fucking wrecks him, heart feeling constricted. He hates this. He's ruined their last year together before college.

They move off, not really looking at each other at all. Damon hold his hands behind his back, looking around at trees and houses and the sky, commenting on trivial things with an overeager edge to his voice, and Graham hums in response, scuffing his worn trainers as he kicks loose stones off the kerb, face downturned. It's odd to think Damon's almost a year older than him. It's never seemed more apparent.

They arrive at the junction where they split paths, and Damon heads off, but not before stopping and throwing a small, unsure, genuine smile at him. He's walking away before Graham can even raise his arm to wave weakly. "Bye."

"See you later."

Graham plods his way up the driveway and into his house, moving straight for the stairs to his room at the back of the house. He can't get it out of his head; that look on Damon's face, when he dropped his arm. Like he was fucking scared, not Graham. Shit. He divests himself of his top, overly warm, picks up his guitar, and perches cross-legged on the foot of his bed. The sun streams golden through the blinds at an angle, and he traces the bold lines as they stretch across the carpet, watches as the flecks of dust whipped into swirling frenzies by his passage calm.

He feels restless and concerned, and bites at a nail, wincing as he tortures himself with the moment over and over, trying to divine quite what the situation was there from the other boy's perspective. He knows he's missed something. He's been so caught up in his own wants that he hasn't even been paying attention to his best friend. He makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, and lifts his left hand to trace his fingertips over the ridged lowest E string, lightly, back and forth. He listens idly to the odd creaking sound of the edge of his nail against it. And then he plays.

It's thunderous, really, all jagged strokes of his right hand against the body of the guitar, left hand jerking up and down the fretboard, mostly in barre chords so the strings sink into the flesh of his finger, letting the stinging under his skin distract him from his thoughts.

\---

Graham doesn't see Damon for the next few days. He stays inside and plays his acoustic to the point that whenever pressure's applied to his fingertips he has to grit his teeth. And keeps going. He want to see Damon, wants Damon to want to see him, doesn't want to acquiesce first. Which is bizarre and backwards because they're best friends, have been forever, but he's getting to the point that his frustrations with his own feelings make him want to lash out.

Thinking has been a repetitive exercise in self-loathing. Creatively so. Because whenever he's doing anything simple enough that it allows his mind to be free, to conjure images, he's struck dumb with the the flicker of anguish across the other boy's face. He fucking hurt Damon, and part of him feels guilty triumph at the fact that he's done that. Which proves he's inherently doing the right thing by inhibiting and withholding whatever this jumbled appreciation for Damon is.

His mum comments on his behaviour a few times. That he's quiet, seems sad. He's fine, he tells her, and smiles at her as best he can. He doesn't think either of them are convinced, not really.

Damon would've - should've - called by now. He should've clattered through the door like this was his own home, and his mother would've greeted him like he was her own child. They should've been messing about down by the river in the park, or just jamming in Graham's room.

He leaves the house feeling muggy, and the answering weather is worse. He curses under his breath, feeling sweat beading at the nape of his neck in the heat. It's grown progressively hotter, finally being declared a heatwave, but it's too fucking humid too, and it needs to break at some point. On the horizon towers a singular pillar of cloud: distant, tall, spire-like. He wishes he could get lost there, but instead, all there is, is a vaulted ceiling of blue. Usually empty skies would herald the summertime, but now it's just a drag.

Why isn't Damon here? What actually happened for them to just not see each other for half a week? Damon's got to know right? He must've figured it out - but then, that smile as he left... Like he's the one with something to apologise for. Graham stoops to pick up his skateboard, carrying it until he reaches the flatter pavement, then throws it down and hops on, speeding along to feel some sort of breeze.

The physical activity works to clear his head, a little, lets him think about things with a little more rationality. They haven't fought like this before - usually, in petty childhood spats, they could go a day without talking before being friends again. It was just too difficult to stay apart. But this isn't even a fight. It's mutual miscommunication and wilful obfuscation. 

Lies, too.

Graham balls his fist, hissing as his bruised fingertips pulse with a sharp pain, before hopping down to the road-surface. At least it's not a hot enough day to melt it, but fuck, is it unpleasant. He wipes away sweat from his hairline with the back of his hand, then wafts the material of his tee, grimacing at how clammy he is. He reaches the end of a cul-de-sac, and swings round in a wide, lazy circle, using the last of his momentum to reach the zenith, before letting gravity pull him back down the road. It's quiet out, unsurprisingly. There's a smokey haze hanging, and the scent of charring meat finds him with ease. It's a great day for a barbecue - any sunny day would be - but for the growing cumulonimbus presence in the sky. There's still some time, a couple of hours at most, but where there was no cloud before, multiple mounds have bubbled up, just whilst he was skating.

The rain will be welcome when it comes. He checks his watch - half an hour until dinner - and figures if he pushes it, he can arrive back in time. Sure, he'll feel and look gross the whole time, but he can shower afterwards. His leg starts burning a little, and his stomach feels like it's caving in, he's so hungry. The light's changed as he's skated, light mellowing to gold, and the greens of leaves it passes through are condensed, over-saturated. It reminds him of every summer. It reminds him of Damon.

He swallows, and it would be audible but there's too much noise from the wheels on the road, let alone anyone but himself to hear it. He follows the camber of the road, before rushing to a stop and almost stumbling on the board, flipping it up into his hand with a sharp kick, and hurrying up the driveway in a gangling mess of limbs, making sure to carry the board back in with him so he bearings aren't rusted up in the coming rain. A breeze kicks up strands of his hair playfully.

He squats to pull loose his laces and kicks his shoes off impatiently, skateboard clattering where he somewhat carelessly drops it. He rushes towards the dining room, appreciating the smell of what his mother's cooked; something earthy, nicely rustic. He's bloody starving. He's got a smile plastered across his face for the first time in days, and his mother seems pleased, grinning back with sincerity.

He can... hear his dad talking to someone in the dining room. God, no. It's lower than his father's - in fact, he'd recognise that timbre and cadence, that slight edge of caricature, the lilt and swing of it, anywhere. His stomach drops low in a burst of adrenaline, and on an empty stomach it's killer, making his knees almost buckle from under him. He wants to scream. On his own terms would've been better. Now he has to pretend that nothing's weird between them, and he's not the fucking aspiring actor here.

He steps through the doorway, face bland, and his father looks up to greet him with a warm nod. Damon's alerted to his presence by this, and quickly turns round in his chair, attempting to shoot him a smile. Graham's heart cracks as he watches Damon take him in, the whole of him, the state of him, top sticking and hair dishevelled, and the contrast between that and his stony expression. Damon seems to realise he's looked too long, that his scrutiny isn't welcome; a shadow passes over his face, eyes going flat, he turns to face the wall across from them, sits back in his customary chair, spine stiff and straight.

Graham gingerly walks around the table, conscious of his every move due to his unkempt attire, and the fact that he can feel Damon's eyes on him, even now. He knows.

His throat feels thick as he swallows, and dry. He reaches for his glass in an abortive movement when he realises the tumbler's empty, then leans to try to grab the handle of the jug. Damon's hand's already there, trying to aid him by swivelling the handle towards him, so their fingers brush and Graham bites back a sound. Which fucking deity did he anger, and how. How the fuck is this fair. Damon pulls his hand back quick, letting out a quick laugh, but it's forced and wrong.

His dad gets up to go and help his mum bring food through, leaving them in silence. Damon's glass is already full, but a single droplet is creeping down the slanted side, achingly slow. It's not cool enough to cause condensation, only being from the tap, so its run is uninterrupted, painstaking. Like this, right now, only slightly easier. He knows that Damon tries to make eye contact with him a few times, but Graham's gotten so used to breaking it and letting their gazes slip past over the past few months that he's lost his tolerance for Damon's searching looks in their entirety. He worries that if he looks, really looks, he'll get stuck, and Damon will see it all. That he's fucking in love with him.

There. There it is. Graham grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching, his hands clasped tight in his lap, as though that'll restrain his wandering mind.

It goes dull outside, in a sudden jump, and Damon stands up, walks to flick on the light, then primly seats himself again. Another moment of Graham being reminded of Damon being older than him. Not more mature, but slightly more adult. Graham wouldn't have felt like he had the authority to do that over at Damon's. He wears it easily, and Graham... likes it. 

His eyes flash up in surprise, and their gazes catch - it feels like they're both caught unaware; Damon looks weary, and worn, faint crescent smudges of purple beneath his eyes, and his dark brows heavy, lips drawn into a hard line. But his eyebrows raise at Graham's acknowledgement, and his mouth opens into an 'o' as he takes in a breath in preparation to speak, leaning in almost conspiratorially, but Graham's parents come through with a pan and a bowl of salad, and the moment's broken. Damon recedes in his chair like snow during a thaw, all of him pulling away: he can feel the mental walls being put up, and he has to slouch back in his chair, no energy left in him.

His parents carry the conversation, seemingly oblivious to the weird tension between the two boys in a way which could only be intentional. Damon chips in with typically smooth-voiced agreements, and he's grateful of the attention shifting off him in lieu of Damon's fantastic charm. He can pretty much eat in peace, and the nerves which have been present in his stomach since first hearing that voice on the other side of the door die away almost fully.

He doesn't fully forget his discomfort, but it's a near thing, just basking in the comforting sounds of the discussion, quite like any other, except for moments of tightness in Damon's voice, when the topic strays too close to them. His skin still feels a little sticky, and he knows he needs to shower, which sends a perverse little thrill through him, knowing that Damon will be in the house then. He might leave though. That's what should happen. That's good, right?

Graham finishes his meal, setting his knife and fork down perfectly parallel on his plate at the five o'clock position. He dabs around his lips with the napkin, wiping off any sauce, then sits, just waiting. Damon's usually quicker than him - voracious - but Graham was hungry.

"Do you mind if we leave, now? I'd like to talk with Graham." Damon's really putting on the charm; it's practically rolling off him, and he can tell his parents are floored by it: he almost is, except, Damon's making plans without asking him, and he doesn't get a say at all.

"You don't want any desert?" His mother sounds hopeful, but not worried.

"Maybe later." Damon smiles politely, pushes his chair out and takes his plate and Graham's mum's to the kitchen, not sparing him a glance. He has no choice but to pick up his own and his father's feeling a little miffed, which is as good an antidote for being buttered-up as any. Damon waits by the foot of the stairs for Graham to leave them off, and he knows Damon's eyes are on him. It's intense, even for him.

Graham proceeds down the corridor slowly, unsure. The light, usually slanting brightly through from the kitchen, is muted and washed-out, greyed by heavy cloud-cover. He walks to the stairs, expecting Damon to take the initiative, and plough on ahead, as he has been all evening, but he remains still, and utters nothing, head tilted back ever so slightly, so Graham's regarded heavy-lidded. And as he walks up the stairs, he feels like he's being chased.

They approach his room, and Graham slows. There are images he's had in his mind, and the guilt of having them bubbles up afresh. He's awoken a couple of times with flashes of memory which make him embarrassed, and his skin crawl with shame. He pushes it down in his mind, reaches out with his fingers splayed wide to push the door open, pausing as it noiselessly swings open.

He turns to check on Damon, is wrong-footed to see apprehension on his face, hands twisting together at his front in a nervous mannerism surely borrowed from Graham. He's the one who wanted them to come up here, not Graham. He wants them to talk. About what? Is he gonna say he doesn't think they can be friends anymore? Is he going to leave. Graham swallows thickly, throat clogged with worry. He proceeds into his room, expects Damon to make a beeline for his bed like it's his own, to sit down and graciously draw Graham over, to break it to him lightly. They've shared the bed enough times over the years for that sort of familiarity to exist.

He's taken-aback as Damon eschews it completely, walking stiltedly towards the window, looking outside at the sky cast in roiling, tortuous seams of greys, purples, bruised blues. Rain is a distant steely sheet, drawing ever closer. Damon seems to take a breath in, heavily, setting his shoulders before turning to face Graham, fingers clamped around his upper arms, eyes beseeching. Graham, on the other side of the room, loses his nerve as soon as Damon opens his mouth.

"Do you mind, I just need to take a shower. Sorry." He's already fumbling around in his drawers before he's finished speaking, gathering pyjamas, underwear, and moving to leave the room.

Damon shakes his head, clears his throat. "Um, not at all." It's said mildly enough, and lowly, but he looks like the wind's been taken from his sails, shoulders dropping and spine curving inward. He seats himself lightly on the windowsill, looking like'd rather sprint out of the house.

Graham practically flees, pulling the door to as sedately as he can manage, grabbing a towel, and only relaxing once he's behind a locked door. What the fuck is this?

He strips quickly, jumping into the hot water gladly, wishing the streams could scrub away his nervousness, his feelings, even. He scrubs shampoo into his scalp with his nails fervidly, thoroughly. He washes the tack of cooled sweat away with soap, the attention paid to himself only cursory, and then stands under the falling water with his face upturned, hoping that maybe Damon will just have left. He wastes a few more precious seconds like this, before he knows he has to get out, and face him.

He dries himself brusquely with his towel, dressing impersonally into his shorts and tee. His hair's a bedraggled mess after he briefly dries it with the towel, and he tries to smooth it down before realising he just won't be able to.

The door unlocks with a smooth clunk, and Graham realises he's holding his breath as he cautiously pads across the landing, leaving his towel and his clothes in the laundry bin. The lights flicker briefly, and in the distance, a low, long roll of thunder ebbs, dies away.

Graham's stress levels are through the roof; postponing an unavoidable situation can only make it worse - he knows this. He inhales deeply, and crosses to his room.

Damon hasn't switched the light on, that much he can tell, but he hasn't left either. Which is... weird. 'Cause the sun's pretty much set now, so the illumination's that odd, luminous grey. Graham casts the door open slowly, peeping around the corner.

His room's practically rendered in monochrome, colours sapped. The storm's pulling closer, precipitation skipping up to them in a slate-dark wave. A burst of sheet lightning illuminates one cloud base, and the answering guttural sound arrives a few seconds later.

That doesn't hold his attention though. Damon's still sat where he first perched not ten minutes ago, head bowed low to look at the beige carpeting as though it's singularly fascinating, hair ruffled like he's run his hand through it one too many times. His hands are clasped, palms together, and his elbows rest on his knees, spread wide. With his head tipped forward, Graham has an excellent view of the shape of the other boys shoulders, and upper back, which is bunched, so he looks like a cat with its hackles up.

Graham clears his throat, trying to alert Damon to his presence gently, to remove him from whatever reverie he's caught up in. Damon startles, eyebrows pulled close and mouth ajar slightly, eyes wide, agony momentarily flitting across his fey features. He jolts to stand, as though he's no longer sure of his welcome. Graham's never felt so horrified in his life.

There's a terrible crawl of realisation in his mind, a possibility he's never allowed himself to entertain, something which his thoughts have only ever seized on when he's lethargic and unawares. All the touches, over the years. The hugs, the nuzzles: instead of it being Damon being himself, it was Damon... what, flirting with him? That doesn't seem quite right - sure, Damon's and incorrigible flirt, but he is with everyone. It's something, special, something he only really does with Graham. Like he physically can't help but want to be closer.

And all those times he's stiffened at Damon's touch, leant away, or worse still, ignored it. Damon's perceptive, and maybe Graham's forced those feeling so far down that he really has fooled the other boy. Maybe Damon thinks he's been harassing Graham for months, and Graham's only grinned and beared it because they're friends. Fuck.

And when Damon asked him what was wrong, what did he do? Did not reciprocate in any way, waited for him to remove his hand before he started walking again, and Damon had pulled his hand away like he thought he'd hurt Graham. That must've been the last straw. Damon thinks Graham knows, and is disgusted by him. He want to be sick.

Damon takes a halting step forward, hands held down by his sides, fingernails digging into his palms. Some of Graham's thought process must've showed on his face, and of course it's been misconstrued because Damon looks physically pained. "Look, there's something I need to tell you. That I should've said to you already." His eyes are frantic, and he takes a few steps closer. Graham almost can't bear it - what if it's not the case, and he's just letting fantasies run away with him. What if Damon is leaving.

The other boy takes a shaky breath, and the words tumble from his lips with little planning. "I've... quite liked you, for a while now. And I hoped you might feel the same way, but obviously that wouldn't've been the case, and these last few months have proved that to me. I'm sorry. I think I've impeded on you far too often, I've touched you when you haven't been comfortable, and you've been far too kind to me. I think, given the circumstances, I should stop seeing you. So I don't do anything else. Okay." Damon seems to deflate, all that spirit in him leaving. Graham reels. "I'll see myself out now." He steps gingerly past Graham towards the door. There's a low rumble of thunder, and a hush as rain begins drumming on the roof, building up to a pelting roar. "Sorry."

Graham flinches, flails to catch Damon by the arm, and he's felt pretty bad over the years, but never as low as when the other boy turns to him with a flash of fear in his eyes. "No."

Damon laughs, nervous. "What?" His eyes jolt down to Graham's thin-fingered hands, wrapped around his wrist, firm but not tight. He swallows, adam's apple bobbing. This is the first bodily contact Graham's instigated in a long while.

"Don't." It's too soft, barely audible under the percussive rain, but Graham knows Damon heard him. He breathes in quick, pulse fluttering, and he forces himself to meet and hold Damon's eyes. They're swirling dark with confusion, hope, regret, consternation. "Don't leave me."

He can tell Damon wants to shake his arm off, feeling unbalanced and slighted by the strange turn of events, wanting some control over the situation. God knows Graham's felt like that often enough. Damon sighs, looking away quickly. He focuses on the window, watching the heavy downpour, and a particularly bright arc of light reflects in his eyes. "Look, Gray, you've been a good friend to me. The best. You are my best friend. But this isn't fair on either of us." There's a hint of bitterness, but it seems mostly directed at himself.

"Damon, please." Graham knows he sounds desperate, and wheedling. But he's scared that if he doesn't act right now, he'll lose him forever. His first love. And that seems dreadfully stupid in light of there actually seeming to be a chance for them. He feels breathless, anticipation swirling beneath his ribs. "Look at me."

Damon does, at first with reluctance, letting go of the door, which shuts to, and then it's as though he can't look away - like he's spellbound. Graham feels magnetised, stuck, exactly like he feared he could be, and he thinks he must be holding his breath because his head's spinning, drunk on their proximity. Graham reaches up to hold Damon's cheeks between his hands, feels the gentle swell of his cheekbones beneath his skin. Damon's lips are apart, just slightly, and now he's staring, he can't stop.

Damon's hands rise to rest at his waist, dreamily slow, as though hypnotised, and Graham shivers at their touch. They both lean in, inexorably, eyes open and disbelieving. Their lips touch, chaste and dry, and they both blink as the move apart, as though trying to wake.

"I'm sorry - I didn't realise..." Damon sounds shocked, apologetic.

Graham shushes him gently. "No, neither did I. You don't need to apologise anymore, either." A slow smile splits Damon's face, and they both relax as the tension which had been hanging over them unbeknownst for so long, alleviates.

A bright, white flare bring them back to the present, and Graham dazedly takes in their poses; close enough for their chests to touch, his arms now draped around Damon's neck, Damon's round his middle, and he would've objected to being treated in a feminine way before his, only, he finds he doesn't mind it at all. It sends a little frisson down his spine.

Graham's voice doesn't works for a second, and when he does speak, it's rough, maladjusted, but seems to catch Damon's sharp focus very nicely. "The rain's still too heavy for you to go home, isn't it." Rhetorical. Almost like he's musing to himself, only he's looking directly at Damon, who grins back at him rakishly.

He pushes forward to kiss Damon again, briefly but with a bit more pressure, and then with his stomach twisting excitedly, turns them so he backs himself towards the bed. Damon catches on quickly, hands slipping down, just brushing the skin of the small of his back between the waist of his pyjama bottoms, and where his top rides just a little too high. He shivers, and it seems to embolden the other boy more.

They clamber onto the bed, heads on Graham's pillow, arms around each other, knees knocking, the space cramped in a charming way. Damon trails a finger playfully from Graham's narrow waist, past his hip, down to the hem of his shorts, making Graham wriggle. He bats it away, grinning bashfully.

They kiss for a while, tentative, but growing more ardent. They pull each other close, and Graham knows he's excited, Damon likewise. He throws his right leg over Damon, desperate for as much contact between them as possible, and he gasps when his crotch presses against the firm line of Damon's hipbone. Damon responds by pressing forward, moving to partially cover Graham, kissing wetly at his neck, and Damon's weight on him feels right, feels grounding. He scrabbles at the other boys back to encourage him to lie over him fully, and he's quickly obliged.

Damon kisses him square on the lips, before rearing backwards to kneel above Graham, straddling his waist, and Graham feels some awe as he watches his friend quickly pull off his tee. Graham takes in the build of him, lean but a little bulkier than the last summer, and the definition of him is heightened in another cold flash from outside. The storm's almost directly above, now, the rain a heavy wash of hissing sound, and the sky creeps closer to inky blue-black. The weather's most certainly broken now.

His breathing is strained, just slightly, and he wants Damon to see him, so he wriggles free of his top, pulling it over his head, throwing it from the bed, and lying back as provocatively as he can manage, neck bared, body language open. His stomach lurches at Damon's perusal - the other boy's eyes are blown wide, and dark, a gentle half-smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

Damon unbuttons then unzips his fly, not looking away, smirk turning devious, and he pushes the waistband as low as he can down his hips before diving forward to kiss Graham again, soundly, drinking in Graham's moan when their hips press flush. Graham pulls up his knees somewhat wantonly, shocked at himself, but enjoys his lowered inhibitions nonetheless, revels in it. He can't believe he actually has the chance to have this. They both do.

They move against each other, gasping and breathing hotly against each other's skin, kissing, light, then hot and fast, going where their rhythm takes them. Damon reaches down, hand trailing reverently over Graham's abdomen, leaving muscles twitching in the wake of the light touch, and cups Graham through his underwear and pyjama shorts, sending a wave of sensation through him. Graham grinds into his palm, and tilts his head into the the one next to his face, closing his eyes at feeling the gentle scratch of nails at his scalp. Damon's balanced above him on one elbow, so he's leaning slightly to the side for balance, and the shade painted over him, combined with their close, warm proximity leaves him feeling safe, protected.

He kicks both legs up around damon's back, pulling him down, and chuckling breathlessly at Damon's look of surprise. The older boy pushes his hand under Graham's underwear in retaliation, stroking firmly, if a tad awkwardly, and Graham bodily stiffens as he comes, surprised, biting back a sound, teeth pressed hard into his kiss-bruised lip.

The pleasure remains in his veins, a pleasant high which has never felt quite so good. His heart feels fit to burst, and Graham watches in amazement as the older boy's eyes flicker shut, looking blissful, unearthly, as lightning casts harsh shadows over his face for a brief second, as he begins stroking himself. A few more pulls, and Damon comes too, eyes squeezed shut, making a sound in the back of his throat, which only he can hear, close as they are, as the rain outside drowns it out quickly.

Damon remains a heavy weight on him, and their breaths, slightly mismatched, raise and lower them in counterpoint. Damon leaves little kisses against Graham's neck, and Graham runs his right hand repeatedly up and down the line of Damon's spine. They wait until the rain begins to die off before they take stock of themselves, still amazed, and Graham could cry at how beautiful Damon looks to him, hair rumpled, pale chest rising and falling in a more regulated rhythm, blue eyes rich and warm.

Graham pushes himself up to be seated, leaning against his arms extended behind him, and Damon leans in to peck him on the lips, before pulling away with a wry twist to them. "I told my parents I'd be back, you know, so I really can't stay. I wasn't expecting to have the opportunity, truth be told." He tilts his head, smile growing into a grin. "Tomorrow?"

Graham launches himself forward to hug the other boy tight.


End file.
